


Wings Rise

by WolfsHowl5678



Series: Lifted To Light On The Wings Of A Killer [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Wings, F/M, Soulmates, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfsHowl5678/pseuds/WolfsHowl5678
Summary: Meg never thought she would meet her soulmate, and she always thought that when she did, she would turn and run the other direction.And she did, right up until Claudette.It's a shame she was always a sucker for some petty revenge.





	Wings Rise

She wished she hadn’t ever gone on that stupid walk. Her wings puffed up behind her, released from their usual binding after the trial, the not-quite-air soothing on her feathers.

 

They ached from their long confinement, and she winced, stretching them out as much as she could while laying on the ground. The feathers, dirtied and bent, still shined a deep purple in the firelight.

 

She used to get compliments about her wings; people would say they looked like a galaxy. Now, she would give anything for them to be anything  _ but _ .

 

It had been another round against the Trapper. She hated it, more so than any other trial she had to face. Partially because it was just awful, and he was a crazy murder who killed her and all her friends. But it was mostly because he never covered his wings. And so every time she was caught in his trap or running from his cleaver or watching her friends get hooked and killed, she was forced to confront the fact that he was her soulmate.

 

She pressed her forehead to the ground, letting out an irritated sigh. Her wings - large, strong things she had never really felt fit her, and had never really liked in the first place - were now constant reminders of the pain and the death she suffered. They stretched from one end of the clearing to another, like large shadows, draping over her. 

 

She had always been a runner, a sprinter made for speed and not strength. Her wings never fit her, not in that way, and she had always resented her soulmate for it a little bit.

 

They had always reflected him, not her, and she always got shit for it, or people telling her how lucky she was that her soulmate would be able to take care of her. Like she wasn’t able to take care of herself, like she had to be taken care of. She was always being judged for someone she didn’t even know.

 

Now though, she thought with a near hysterical laugh, now she could hate him for so much more.

 

“Tough round, huh?” Claudette’s voice rang out, and she gave nothing but an irritated groan in response.

 

“It was against him again,” she muttered, face pressed against the ground. She heard Claudette’s sharp intake of breath, and felt her friend sit next to her head, a hand carefully beginning to card through her hair.

 

“Shit, that sucks,” she said, and Meg nodded. Claudette was the only one she had told about who her soulmate was, the others having understood it was a touchy subject even before she faced the Trapper for the first time.

 

She felt Claudette’s hand drift to her wing, and the questioning hum her friend gave her.

 

‘Yeah, fine, it’s whatever,” she replied, and a second later her friend began to preen her. She was the only one Meg would let touch her wings, even she didn’t like touching them herself. But Claudette was a healer, a caretaker, and so she had all but demanded Meg let her preen her wings so they’d stay healthy. She hadn’t been able to stop her, really, so eventually Meg just let her. She never admitted to it feeling nice, but she was almost certain Claudette knew.

 

They had been together in this since the beginning, both original survivors of this batch. They had bonded through their shared pain and suffering, although Claudette didn’t know who her soulmate was. 

 

Claudette had never judged her for her wings. Even though she had tried to keep them hidden, tried to keep them from showing, Claudette had still seen them. And she had given nothing but sad acceptance, and wrapped her in a hug.

 

“He still hasn’t found out?” Claudette asked carefully, and she shook her head.

 

“No, and hopefully he never will,” she replied, feeling Claudette pause in brushing off her feathers. “What?”

 

“Well… Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he did,” she said, and she lifted her head, turning towards her friend with an incredulous stare.

 

“What.”   
  
“Well, just think about it: you either gain an advantage in any trial against him, or get the petty satisfaction of knowing when you two start sharing pain that it’s at least inflicting the pain on him as well,” Claudette explained, and she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She couldn’t believe Claudette was that… sadistic. Such manipulation seemed beneath her kind-hearted friend, and yet…

 

She had to admit the idea appealed to her. Payback for all the suffering she had been put through at his hand. It might be a detriment to her, in her own right, but the idea of being able to get payback was tempting.

 

“All you would have to do it touch his wing or make sure he touches yours, and it will jumpstart the bond. After that, you just wait until it grows stronger via proximity until you’re both sharing pain. Who knows, it might grow strong enough that he wouldn’t even be able to hurt you without cause immense pain to himself,” Claudette said, sounding like she was explaining the parts of a plant rather than how to manipulate their situation and the people around them for more favorable outcomes.

 

“I hate how both logical and spiteful this is,” she said, more to say it out loud than to disagree with her friend. Claudette snorted, hands moving over to her other wing.

 

“Guess you’re doing it then,” she replied, and it wasn’t a question. Meg sighed, letting her head drop back to the ground, closing her eyes.

 

“Yeah, might as well. Might at least spice up the torture of this place,” she replied. Claudette laughed, patting her on the head.

 

“Go fuck him up girl, I know you can,” she said, and Meg couldn’t help but smile. 

 

~~

 

Meg scowled at the jittery feeling still running through her veins. She had been trying to sprint burst away, but he had grabbed her as she went through the window. Of course, his hand had snatched her wing, which had burned like hell as he’d thrown her to the ground.

 

It was, of course, the Trapper, who was, in fact, her soulmate, which meant that, whether she liked it or not, they were bonded now.

 

Joy.

 

“So, you gonna kill me now or what?” she grumbled, the bond swirling in the back of her mind. Bonds took time to form, and it had been a good few minutes since everyone else had left the trial, no one sticking around to see what would happen.

 

The downside of the bond was that it basically incapacitated her until it finished forming completely, meaning she would be lying here for awhile.

 

She groaned as the bond rippled in the back of her head, sending a series of shivers through her limbs. 

 

“I’m actually begging you to kill me now this ground is  _ not _ comfortable and we’re gonna be here for a while,” she said through gritted teeth. The ground of the MacMillain Estate was rocky and hard, and all together extremely uncomfortable to be laying on. 

 

The Trapper didn’t respond, nothing but his rasping breath echoing over the area. Her heartbeat hadn’t calmed down either, which was awful but normal, at this point, and she sighed, managing to lift her head just enough to stare at him.

 

“God,  _ fuck you _ ,” she grumbled, resigning herself to the pain while she waited for her limbs to regain movement. Soulmate bonds always took at least a few hours, if not days, to settle, meaning they might be here for a long ass time, and she was not a happy camper.

 

In the real world, there were protocols for this kind of shit. People who could be called in to escort accidentally bonded pairs to one of their homes, or special vacation days one could take from work or school if they were suddenly bonded. 

 

Here though, she was just fucking stuck, lying on the ground like a dumbass, waiting for whenever he would murder her and get it over with. 

 

The worst part? She could  _ hear  _ the hatch from where she was. She could literally hear it: that taunting noise that signaled freedom, that easy escape, so fucking close but  _ so far away _ . 

 

Gritting her teeth, she decided that, whether her bond and soul or whatever liked it or not, she was not going to become a victim of her own biology. 

 

Her hands flexed awkwardly, shuddering violently as the bond lashed out again, briefly overwhelming her with a wave of emotions that definitely weren’t hers. It was anger, confusion, and a hesitant feeling she refused to label ‘hope’. 

  
That was probably crushed by the wave of bitterness and wrath she sent back to him, but whatever. She didn’t feel guilty about it. Not at all.

  
Not even a little bit.

 

Slowly, she pulled herself forward, mind straining against itself, forcing her muscles to move, to contract and relax. Inch by inch she made her way towards the hatch, even as the distance increased the pounding in her skull. 

 

She heard him shuffling, and she snarled violently as he picked her up, hands uncomfortably warm and sticky with the blood of her fellow survivors. 

 

“Finally gonna kill me now, bastard?” she snapped viciously. She felt almost like a wild animal, cornered and lashing out at anything and everything. She could see the damn hatch, her last chance of escape, and watched it vanish in the grass as he walked away from it. 

 

He didn’t even have the dignity to sling her over his shoulder either, instead carrying her bridal style like she was some sort of precious thing. Not even a few minutes ago, he would have killed her without a thought, and now he was treating her like royalty or something. Talk about hypocrisy. 

 

She let out a groan, not getting a response from the killer, the only sound being his steady breathing. 

 

“Fine, fuck, whatever. Guess I’ll die,” she said, head leaning back against his shoulder almost against her will. How the hell he was moving so easily when she had fought tooth and nail for those few feet of distance was beyond her, but she would bet her ass it had something to do with the Entity. Probably gave him an increased recovery time from shocks or something. 

 

He passed by every hook the found, instead seeming to be searching for something specific. She had more or less resigned herself to his mercy for the time being, internally cursing Claudette and her stupid, petty, revenge plans. 

 

Eventually, she was surprised to see an exit gate in the distance, slowly coming into view as they approached.

 

“What the hell…” she mumbled, staring up at it in confusion. He walked through the gates and all the way out, stepping into the forest like it was nothing. No blockers, no nothing. Just him, walking directly through the exit gate and into the fog like it was a normal, everyday thing. 

 

_ God _ she hated this place. 

 

~~

 

She still had no idea where he was taking her, even though it had been thirty minutes of wandering.  He had to pause every few minutes when a wave of emotion was transferred, stealing both their breaths away as their minds adjusted to the presence of something so undeniably foreign. 

 

She was 95% sure that the only emotions he was getting from her were a resigned anger and learned helplessness; meanwhile, she kept getting bombarded with confusion and that stupid  _ hope _ of his that she didn’t know what to do with. It was irritating at best, infuriating at worst. 

 

And still, they walked on, until something slowly came into view through the fog.

 

It almost looked like the MacMillan estate, but it wasn’t a part she had ever seen before. It looked like, well, an actual estate, with, like, a house and shit on it. Not like that one place they always got stuck with, the one that had the crappy two story house with nothing it in. It was a  _ house  _ house. There was an old and worn tire swing tied to an enormous oak tree up front, and a nice front porch lit by swinging lanterns and things.

 

She couldn’t help but wonder what fresh hell she’d managed to get herself into this time. 

 

He stepped up to the front door, maneuvering through it with ease, stepping into an almost, but not quite, dilapidated entrance hallway. It looked like it was  _ supposed  _ to be old and worn and gross, but also like someone had gone to some actual effort to fix it up and make it look nice. It wasn’t a half bad job either, all things considered.

 

Through the entrance hall there was a small living room, with shelves filled with books and little trinkets she couldn’t make out. In the center was a well worn and well loved looking couch, draped with faded blankets and actually comfortable-looking pillows.

 

She wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not at the homely feel of the place. It was one of those moments where she felt like everything was already so goddamn weird that this might as well happen. 

 

He gently deposited her on the couch before all but slumping into a nearby chair, seeming a lot more exhausted than he let on. She sighed to herself, leaning back in the pillows and trying her best not to bask in the simple comfort.

 

She failed, but at least she tried.

 

“You get an actual house with simple comforts? Damn, lucky you,” she said, leaning back into the pillows. Her body went noodly and limp in the face of the basic relief, sinking into the delightfully soft couch.

 

“Next thing you know you’re gonna tell me that you get actual food or something,” she grumbled, inadvertently pressing her face into the blanket. It was well worn and loved, and she didn't know how long it had been since she had felt anything remotely soft. All they got were barley warm campfires and piles of scratchy offerings to lay on. If they were lucky, they’d get a particularly soft bouquet of flowers to use as a pillow. 

 

Another flash rippled through her mind, and she grimaced, riding out the feeling. She got a few flashes of emotion, more curiosity now than anything. But a few images entered her head, most definitely not her own. It was pictures of… food. And cooking. Her mouth started watering at the thought of it, and she couldn’t help but look at the Trapper in confusion.

 

Was this just another way of taunting her? Of hurting her? Or was this just another way for the Entity to show that it favored the Killers more than it ever would the survivors?

 

It didn’t really matter, she supposed. Not in the long run. She didn’t know if he was psychotic, or if there was a smidgen of human empathy left in him, but either way she doubted her suffering mattered much to him.

 

Knowing that with every knife in her back, every hook in her shoulder, every time she was torn asunder and rebuilt to the Entity’s whims, that he would feel it? Now that made it worth it. To know she would cause him physical pain - maybe nothing like she had experienced, but  _ something _ \- was enough.

 

She couldn’t help a soft snort of amusement, thinking how, when she was younger, she’d always taken far too much care with herself, afraid that somehow her soulmate would still feel the pain. How different times had been, then.

 

“So, are you going to kill me?” she asked, more out of boredom than anything. She was tired, and knowing whether or not she was going to wake up with a meat cleaver in her spine would be nice. Either way, she knew she wasn’t going to be awake for long, not with how comfortable the couch was, and how tired she was. Her heartbeat had even subsided, leaving nothing but the quiet noises of the realm around them.

 

The Trapper seemed startled by her question, before slowly shaking his head. If she had to say, she would have said he looked almost confused, the way you look when someone asks you an outlandish question. It didn’t seem that far-fetched to her, in all honesty, but maybe to him it was.

 

“Great, then I’m gonna pass out here, and hopefully I won’t die in my sleep or anything,” she said, managing to twist her body enough to be laying on her side. It didn’t take long for her eyes to slip shut, even with a merciless killer at her back. Personally, she blamed her constant disregard for death, courtesy of living in the Entity's realm. Death wasn’t an escape, after all.

 

~~

 

Waking up was a strange experience. For an instant, she wasn’t certain where she was, whether she was in a trial or at the campfire or what. She had long since given up on the idea of waking up anywhere but those two places, and even in her half awake state she knew she wasn’t home, no matter how soft the thing she was laying on was. But it was too soft to be the ground by the campfire, and too warm to be a trial.

 

Her memories came back in a flood, and she groaned, sitting up and looking around. The Trapper had vanished, although to where she hadn’t the faintest clue. It probably should have been more concerning than it was, but this didn’t have the instinctive feel of a trial. There was no buzzing terror under her skin, unnatural and sickly.

 

But it was still  _ strange _ . She could feel the barest hints of the bond in the back of her mind, little flickers of something foreign but also... not. 

 

She sighed, slipping off the couch and standing up. It was, sadly, probably the best sleep she’d had ever since coming to this hell.

 

There was something oddly  _ domestic _ about wandering around the house, eventually finding her way into what she assumed was the kitchen. The Trapper was there, cooking silently, and she stood in the doorway, just watching. 

 

He was unnaturally large, taking up nearly the whole space, having to duck down as he moved about. Something was sizzling on the stove top, and she watched as he washed and cut up several types of vegetables. 

 

The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, seemed almost modernized. It didn’t feel old timey or weird, but rather new age, sleek. It was exceptionally out of place, like the Entity had forgotten how to make the kitchen and just superimposed the closest thing it could find instead.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked abruptly, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorway. The Trapper actually jumped in surprise, head banging against the ceiling rather viciously. She flinched in sympathy but otherwise didn’t move, choosing instead to keep her distance. The most surprising thing was, perhaps, that he swore, hand coming up to rub the back of his head angrily. 

 

“Give a man a little warning next time, why don’t’cha?” he grumbled, voice gravelly, with an accent she could only describe as old. It was a startling revelation in and of itself, but she forced her face passive, arms still crossed in a defensive position.

 

“Yeah, no thanks. Now, what the hell are you doing?” she repeated, attempting to stare him down. It was hard to do when he was a good foot and a half taller than her at least, and strong enough to snap her in half if he wanted to, but she made a valiant effort.

 

“I’m cooking, wha’d’ya think I’m doing?” he replied, turning back to the food. Her stomach growled loudly at the smell of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten something that wasn’t scavenged garbage.

 

“Hungry?” he asked, and she scowled at him, leaning back further into the doorway.

 

She should really just go back to her campfire. She had done what she had set out to do; mission accomplished, time for a tactical retreat.

 

… But the food was tempting, incredibly so, and she couldn’t help but shuffle a little bit closer.

 

“... And if I am?” she asked carefully. She swore she could see him smile under the mask before he turned away, dropping more of the vegetables into the pan. 

 

“It’s for you, so feel free to take whatever you might want,” he said, and her stomach growled again. He didn’t say anything, instead scoping out a pile of some sort of cooked meat and depositing it on a plate, holding it behind him without looking. She stepped forward warily, taking the plate and scurrying backwards with it, out of range of any weapon he might pull. 

 

A flicker of emotion slipped through the bond, a flicker of satisfaction and hope, mixing with her own wariness and hunger. 

 

She was almost too hungry to wait, but she didn’t want her first experience of food to be burning her mouth, so she forced herself to wait, standing in the door to the kitchen and keeping a careful eye on the Trapper. He seemed content to ignore her distrustful stare. 

 

When he finished up cooking, he made his own plate, taking it through another doorway. She followed hesitantly, not wanting to lose sight of a potential threat while she could. She didn’t want to be trying to eat and end up with a cleaver in her back.

 

So she followed him into the dining room, which reverted to the old fashioned look of everything else in the house, feeling warm and welcoming. She was frozen in place, watching as the Trapper lifted his mask and began to eat, for all intents and purposes, like a normal human being. 

 

If he noticed her staring, he didn’t comment, instead gesturing to the seat across from him, where silverware was already set out. She made her way towards it, food cooled enough to eat by now, carefully watching him for signs of aggression. She felt like an easily startled animal, ready to bolt at the first signs of trouble.

 

When no immediate attacks seemed to be forthcoming, she sat, picking up a fork and staring at it. She hadn’t seen genuine cutlery in what felt like years, and she almost didn’t remember how to use it. Still she made an attempt , trying not to moan at the delicious flavours that burst in her mouth at the first bite.

 

After that it felt like the food all but disappeared, gone far too quickly and leaving her wanting more. At the same time, though, she doubted she could take another bite, she felt so full. So long without proper meals had ruined her appetite it seemed, even when presented with such good food.

 

She wanted to savour this feeling, of being full and sated, for as long as she could. The Trapper must have picked up on her mood, because he grunted, not looking up from his own food.

 

“You’re welcome to come back and eat anytime, you know,” he said, and she looked at him. She couldn’t see most of his face, the mask only lifted enough for him to eat, blocking the rest of his face, but somehow she felt he was being sincere. It was weird enough to make her want to leave.

 

“Yeah, fat chance,” she muttered, deciding she’d had enough. She stood up, taking her empty plate into the kitchen and washing it almost methodically, old instincts rising up and forcing her to be polite.

 

The Trapper followed a second later, and she washed his plates, too, handing them off to him to dry. It was weird, and her skin felt like it was squirming uncomfortably at the proximity.

 

She made her way back towards the front of the house, hands still wet, stepping out onto the porch and then to the grass. She had no idea how to get back to the campfire, but she figured the fog would guide her.

 

“Like I said, come back any time,” the Trapper said, and she flinched, shooting him a quick glare over her shoulder.

 

“Yeah, right,” she said, taking off. She didn’t look back, sprinting into the fog and letting it wrap around her like an old friend, leaving the house behind.

 

~~

 

She sighed, standing in front of the house again, not even three trials later. She had no idea how she’d found her way back, only that she did, and now here she was, staring up at the house and debating on and off with herself.

On the one hand, this was a  _ bad fucking idea _ .

On the other, she was  _ hungry as fuck _ and he had  _ actual food _ . 

So, there was that. And not to exaggerate or anything, but honestly? At this point she’d die for a good meal. Of the few perks they had in this hellscape, food was not one of them. Certainly not fresh tasting stuff like what the Trapper had. Whether or not it was actually fresh didn’t matter, so long as it wasn’t stolen from the secret stashes of gross food they found during trials. That shit was all preprocessed to hell and back, sometimes gross and soggy, other times rotted. The only meat they had seen came from that disgusting horse thing, and it wasn’t like they had any way to kill it for the meat.

So, no food for them, except junk food, and disgusting food, which got really,  _ really _ boring after a while. 

Which also meant that being close to the Trapper, even for just his food, was a luxury she didn’t want to waste. 

Her wings twitched, and she heard someone approaching. She glanced behind her, guessing that it had suddenly become a ‘now or never’ deal in terms of getting the food. 

The Trapper appeared in the distance, slowly approaching the house, and she dithered about, finally sighing and turning towards him.

“You said anytime, right?” she asked as he approached, determinedly ignoring the blood that was dripping off his weapon. He had probably just come from a trial, and she refused to wonder which one of her friends that blood belonged to. It was easier that way, although the stench of it made her eyes water. 

He visibly perked up and nodded, and she trailed behind him as he stepped up to the house, watching as he put his weapon near the door, on what must have been the designated ‘blood rug’, because it was absolutely caked in the stuff. She stepped past it, trying not to breathe in too deeply, and into the entrance of the house. 

The Trapper wandered off, and she was left awkwardly standing around, wondering if she was allowed to try her hand at cooking, which she had never been good at in the first place, or if she was just supposed to wait for him. She noted, belatedly, that her brain hadn’t even registered the Trapper as a threat in the setting, the bond sending soothing pulses to her and calming her normal instincts.

She wasn’t sure what to think about that. 

Either way, it didn’t seem like the Trapper was coming back anytime soon, and she sighed, slipping through the house and towards the kitchen... or, at least, where she remembered it was. It was a little harder to find her way through the house now, but she eventually found her way in, staring at the pristine kitchen.

She had no idea what she was doing, if she were honest. She hadn’t been the best of cooks prior to all this, and now she certainly wasn’t going to be any better. She could be years out of practice, for all she knew, and the threat of burning down the house with her attempts wasn’t far fetched.

But she was on her own, so she might as well try, right?   
  
  


As it turned out, ‘just trying’ was an impressively bad idea.

“Well, never thought I was cut out for arson, but you learn something new everyday, I guess,” she said, staring up at the smoking remains of the house. She wasn’t altogether too concerned about it; the Entity would probably just make it again, like reloading an old save file or something. 

The Trapper was looking at her with something akin to exasperated amusement, and she shook her head.

“Really, it’s your fault for leaving me alone and unsupervised in the kitchen,” she said, looking at him. It had been simple, really. She had tried to make pasta, had forgotten to put water in with the pasta, and when she turned around the entire thing had caught fire somehow. It had gone wildly out of control from there, and she had  _ tried _ to put it out, but she was a walking disaster.

So, now the entire house had burned down. Whoops.

“Is it, now?” the Trapper said, causing her to start. His voice was rough and gravelly, deeper than she’d expected, always startling even though she had heard it before. It was hard to take the image of the silent murder and combine it with the Trapper’s voice. 

“Yes, it is. Clearly your fault entirely,” she replied jokingly, crossing her arms.  

“Clearly,” he echoed, and she swore she could see a flicker of a smile under his mask. The bond flickered in the back of her head, humming happily, and she grinned.

“Well, good luck with the house, dude,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. She turned around and took off before he could retaliate, unable to stop a laugh from bubbling up her throat as the Trapper grumbled behind her, the bond singing with a strange underlying fondness.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.


End file.
